


Guilt

by tristinai



Series: Actiones secundum fidei [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blasphemy, Chantry Sex, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship, Self-Loathing, Unresolved Emotional Tension, cullrian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: Cullen was many things. The one thing he had never been was blameless.A companion piece to Shame.





	Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> The events of this story take place concurrently with the timeline in Shame, focusing on different moments and written from Cullen's perspective. As a standalone, I worry that it may jump ahead too much so I recommend reading the previous part first. What began as a couple of scenes meant to gauge Cullen's motivations turned into...well, this. Please adhere to warnings in the tags and let me know what you think.

His finger paused on the ivory rook, the cool marble warming beneath his gentle touch. Brows furrowed, Cullen contemplated the board before him, the positioning of dark pieces, considering numerous outcomes to put his opponent in check. Perhaps, like usual, he thought too long, too hard, for he heard an impatient huff, thwarting the opportunity to get too lost in his own head.

 

“Must you prolong the inevitable?” Dorian asked, tweaking the edge of his carefully trimmed mustache. “We both know I've got you cornered, Commander.”

 

The mage's chest shook with a laugh, more like a seductive purr, and golden eyes were immediately drawn to the way the late afternoon sun glinted off the numerous embellishments and buckles on the Tevinter's tunic. A bared shoulder, skin as dark as the sands of the Amaranthine coast, momentarily interfered with strategy. Cullen wondered if the mage's skin was as soft to the touch as it looked, would taste as rich as the perfumed scents Dorian wore, smelling of spiced decadence every time he stepped into a room.

 

He shook the thoughts from his head, mentally chastising himself for letting his mind wander that far. True, Dorian was handsome. The mage was as aware of it as he made sure everyone else was. Yet it was only after reluctantly engaging in these games of chess, at the insistence of the Inquisitor, who had been none too pleased with the rudeness Cullen regarded the Tevinter upon first introductions months before, that the Commander began to entertain his own fancy for the man. The attraction was gradual as he grew more at ease with the mage's company, but there was no denying now that desire had flourished where once there had only been tolerance for the Tevinter's presence in the Inner Circle.

 

“Your confidence precedes you, Lord Pavus,” Cullen said, finally deciding on where he would move his rook. “Patience outweighs spontaneity, a tactic you may wish to employ in future games.”

 

“I beg to differ, dear Commander. Overthinking is how one misses opportunity and I fear you've spent more time in your head than in the game. What would the soldiers say, hearing their fearless leader has been bested by an 'evil Tevinter Magister'?”

 

“Altus,” Cullen corrected, with a small smirk, curling up the side of his lip near his scar. Setting the rook where he intended, he added, “And I have no concern for such gossip. I—”

 

His voice trailed, frown on his face. He glanced over the board a few times, recalling all his pieces before the accusation could pass his lips.

 

“Something the matter?”

 

And didn't he just sound like the cat who ate the canary?

 

“It appears that one of my bishops has mastered the art of invisibility,” Cullen said, pointing to where his remaining bishop had been minutes before. “Quite a curious thing, that.”

 

“Curious indeed,” Dorian said, equally amused.

 

He passed his fingers over the empty space, frown returning. “Ah, it seems I am wrong. The blasted piece has simply wandered off the board. What other explanation could there possibly be?”

 

“It's as I was saying, Commander. You've spent so much time in your own head, your own pieces have made off to Maker knows where. Such a shame.”

 

“A missed opportunity.”

 

“And what opportunity would that be?”

 

“The opportunity to catch you in the act of cheating,” Cullen answered, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. “I suppose there's nothing left to do but concede to being bested by 'foul play'.”

 

“You concede too quickly, Commander,” Dorian said, the flirtatious tone he used warming Cullen's cheeks. With a cheeky wink, he dropped the coveted piece back on the board. “We must continue. That is, after you decide a fitting punishment for my offense. I could offer up a few _suggestions_.”

 

The slide of a leg against his beneath the table had Cullen's face coloring a deep shade of red, gasping out, “Maker's breath,” and standing up so abruptly that he knocked his knee on the table, causing it to shake. Most of the remaining chess pieces clattered out of position, some rolling off the table. Already, apologies were spilling from Cullen's lips but they died immediately when he saw Dorian laughing uproariously, bent over in his chair.

 

The realization of what Dorian had done did little to diminish Cullen's blush. “You did that on purpose!”

 

It was a long moment, the mage struggling to regain his composure, before he could answer the accusation. “So...we call it a draw?”

 

“Maker, you're unbelievable,” Cullen muttered.

 

But he couldn't help but smile, the quickening of his pulse making it difficult to ignore the fire a simple brushing of legs had ignited, awakening a deep ache inside of him. Cullen's smile was bemused, his demeanor humbled at being victim to such a cheap tactic. But already, he could feel the flames of desire, on the brink of consuming him whole.

 

* * *

After their first kiss, Cullen easily fell into the pattern they established. Discretion became the challenge, pressed against hidden corners of the stronghold, rutting fully clothed, lips seeking what little skin either dared expose, lest the echo of footfalls interrupt and force them to decency. Cullen was unpracticed but learned in time the way Dorian liked to be kissed, where to press his lips against the mage's throat, make him struggle to hold back wanton moans as the Commander experimentally pawed at the Tevinter's covered erection.

 

For the first little while, it was enough. The days when Cullen would pull out his lyrium kit, stare longingly as his skin itched for the relief only the blue liquid would bring, were farther between. Instead, he found himself rejuvenated when receiving word that the Inquisitor and her companions would be returning to Skyhold, and the furtive glances exchanged between him and Dorian in the dining hall always promised a quick reunion when both could sneak away to an empty corridor.

 

But like his addiction to lyrium, time made him want more.

 

“Oh, Maker,” he groaned, hips moving against Dorian's.

 

He had the mage pinned to the wall, lips swollen from how he had all but devoured them on sight. Saliva glistened in the dull lighting off the expanse of Dorian's neck, in the places Cullen had assaulted with his mouth and tongue, bruising already dark skin. Such marks would easily be hidden by the high collars Dorian preferred, though in jest, he would joke about 'having been claimed by a lion' to the Commander. It made something raw, almost jealous in its possessiveness, smolder in Cullen's chest, encouraged his mouth to reopen 'old wounds', if only so he would know every time Dorian wore one of those collared robes, Cullen's mark flared visible beneath the rich fabric.

 

“I want...I want...”

 

His head felt fuzzy and it was dizzying how strong that burrowed _need_ had become, urging his hips to grind achingly against the mage's, delicious but not quite satisfying the thrum that had been building since this game started between them. He was too gone to voice what he wanted, maybe still uncertain himself. But he was close, for the love of Blessed Andraste, he was so _close._ All he needed was...was...

 

The muffled sounds of a conversation had Cullen pulling off of Dorian before he could quite realize what _that_ was _._ Both of them stared at each other, far enough apart to not warrant suspicion, but breathing heavily enough, hair disheveled, skin glowing from activity, that it would be enough to give them away.

 

Anxiously, they waited. Steps approached, voices grew louder, only to echo farther off a different corridor before turning towards their direction. Both breathed a relieved sigh.

 

“Evening patrol,” Cullen said. Then, with a frown, added, “I am certain I told the units assigned to the inner keep to patrol _every_ corridor. It's been...I suppose a good quarter hour and no one has come this way.”

 

He was visibly upset by this. Dorian stared at him as if he'd lost his head.

 

“Right. Because discovering the Commander of the Inquisition being molested by a Tevinter magister,” he didn't acknowledge Cullen's half-hearted 'altus', “is a more desirable outcome since at least it saves the integrity of our dear soldiers and their commitment to duty,” Dorian said, dryly. “Best to reprimand those lazy sods shirking their responsibilities. Be sure to let them know exactly how you became privy to their 'slacking off'.”

 

Cullen sighed. “Current situation aside, I'd sleep better knowing our soldiers were fully committed to the cause. Why, back when I was in the Circle—”

 

“Yes, yes. Back in your day, I'm certain you traveled through kilometers of vicious snow, battled demons with your bare hands, received daily paddling to keep that 'unshakable scary templar' demeanor, etc, etc,” Dorian said, flippantly.

 

Cullen tried to look annoyed but found himself unraveling under the mage's coy grin.

 

“You're just having a go at me.”

 

“I rather enjoy ruffling that _thick_ mane of yours,” Dorian purred, patting the fur on Cullen's cloak for emphasis.

 

Despite himself, Cullen couldn't help but blush.

 

“But, on a more serious note, we should perhaps find...better accommodations, for future illicit meetings,” Dorian continued. “May I suggest my personal quarters? If you have the time to sneak away from all that dreaded 'commanding' business.”

 

Cullen stiffened, the weight of what Dorian was propositioning already forming lewd scenarios in his mind. Dorian's quarters undoubtedly had a bed and where there was a bed...

 

“I...well...”

 

He wouldn't need a mirror to know how red his face was, cheeks flaring at the possibility of what would happen should he take the mage on his offer.

 

“It will be far easier sneaking in and out of my room than wandering the battlements to find a dark corner,” Dorian said. “Plus, I can assure you far less possibility of interruption.”

 

When Cullen was still too flustered to say anything, Dorian leaned in, breath hot against the Commander's ear, and squeezed his shoulder. “...and show you all the ways my tongue is so famed.”

 

A wet flick against his lobe sent a shiver across Cullen's skin.

 

_Maker, help me._

 

“Think about it, Commander.”

 

And so Dorian left him, cock still heavy in his trousers, hands twitching at his sides, desperate to grab the mage by his robes, to finish what was started many minutes before, and then follow him to his room so he could spend the rest of the night having the Tevinter. That he would have to wait another evening felt almost like cruel torture, were it not for the doubt that sparked hesitation.

 

The last time Cullen had been _that_ intimate was...well, that long. And he knew that any eagerness he had would be conquered by his nerves, and he would fumble with inexperience, make a right arse of himself, maybe even make Dorian regret starting this thing between them. Cullen had no illusions of how terrible he was at physical intimacy and how it had taken weeks of endurance before Dorian finally started to enjoy their heated makeout sessions.

 

So it really came as no surprise to either of them that it took many pints of alcohol before Cullen finally indulged the offer given so casually by Dorian, a few nights later.

 

* * *

“I was never some virginal Chantry boy.”

 

A kiss pressed between his shoulder blades sent a warm trill down his back.

 

“Of course you weren't.”

 

The hands that kneaded his shoulders felt soft and yet firm, slick with scented oil. Years of tension eased from muscle and Cullen could be lulled to sleep but for the unease which thrummed with their growing intimacy.

 

“I've had...experiences.”

 

He could feel more than hear the teasing laugh, in the way Dorian's hands shook against his skin.

 

“I'm sure you have.”

 

The careless tone would have been infuriating, were Cullen not used to the lack of seriousness Dorian often regarded him with. It had always been like that, another part of the Tevinter's mystique. Yet the more they continued, the more conversation lost meaning, words filling empty space. Dorian was good at that, conversing for hours without ever saying anything. There was much that needed to be said but neither wanted to be the one to initiate that discussion.

 

So Dorian humored him, Cullen acted affronted, and the cycle continued.

 

When the massaging stopped, Dorian curling his arms around Cullen, nuzzling his face into the back of the Commander's neck, that thrum became an angry throb, a warning going off in Cullen's head. They were already spent, having gotten each other off before the mage's insistence of a massage, and Cullen was far too exhausted to converse for much longer.

 

“It's getting late,” he pointed out, around a yawn.

 

He could feel Dorian tense against his back and shifted to make his meaning clear. He could only hold the Fade's seductive lure for so long, the terrors that awaited always enough to keep sleep at bay but never something he'd been able to achieve on nights spent partly inside the altus. Some secrets he'd best keep to himself, even if it meant being blunt over how uninviting his bed was to overnight guests.

 

“Don't worry, Commander. I shan't overstay my welcome,” the mage said, ever teasing.

 

Maybe Cullen would have felt bad if the shame of awakening and yelling in his sleep, sweat drenching his skin, eyes wild from horrors crafted from memory, didn't make it so easy to keep his lover at arm's length. He could tell himself that neither of them wanted more than an outlet for their carnal urges and it was easy to believe, if he ignored how Dorian seemed to linger longer with each encounter, craved the gentle touches they exchanged post-coital.

 

It was easier to ignore how Dorian smiled placidly but still couldn't quite look at him as the mage dressed. A few pleasantries and he was soon down the ladder, with the promise of 'next time' unspoken between them.

 

Cullen had to be more careful, had to not let either of them think this was anything more than it was.

 

But it was getting harder to deny how much emptier the bed felt every time the mage left.

 

* * *

On trembling knees, he knelt before the statue of Andraste, the clanking of plate a reminder of a position he'd taken many times, greaves scraping against stone. Bared hands clasped in prayer, he began a familiar verse from _Transfigurations,_ Cullen's voice an unsteady ripple in a room now soiled of its previous silence.

 

“O Maker, hear my cry,” he began.

 

_Fingers gripping raven-dark locks, mussed out of their usual coif. Pulling back, tugging until a pleased mewl sent heat flowing straight to Cullen's groin—_

 

“Guide me through the blackest nights—”

 

_Bent over, spreading to welcome the intrusion of a well-oiled cock. Every whimper an acquiescence to a world of debauchery Cullen had spent years denying himself, his addiction to that tight heat spiraling him to a frenzied need, a mere echo of the song lyrium sang to him—_

 

Cullen paused to grit his teeth, to chase the thoughts that spoiled Andraste's words. To speak from the most holy of texts while he recalled how Dorian had writhed beneath him but a night ago left a taste more bitter down his throat than the seed he greedily swallowed whenever proffered by the Tevinter mage.

 

“Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked—”

 

_He was lost after that first thrust, in a delirium laced in every sound spilling from his lips. Each time he pushed in, his grip on Dorian's hip tightened, marking bruises on flawless skin. But it was that delicious ache that had him driving deeper, seeking the spot that would have Dorian falling apart. All he had to do was reach around, stroke his lover to completion—_

 

He tasted blood, biting down hard enough on his lip to break skin. It's copper tang disrupted the verse but failed to disrupt the thoughts that not even Andraste's prayer could save him from.

 

“Make me rest in the warmest places.”

 

_It was too much, too overwhelming. Cullen was spilling into him with hardly more than a warning, Dorian's name a strangled groan, left half-finished. A few meek thrusts until he was spent, head dropping between the mage's shoulder blades, body shaking from the intensity of his orgasm._

 

Cullen tried to continue, tried to ignore the effect the memory was having on him. Shame colored his cheeks, redder than the glow of freshly bloomed embrium.

 

“O Creator, see me kneel—”

 

_And that he had, when his impromptu finish left Dorian hard, cock weeping for the Commander's attention. He knelt by the bed's edge, hand gripping his lover's shaft, tongue tracing over the head—_

 

“For I walk only where You would bid me—”

 

“ _So good, amatus,” Dorian had moaned, hand snaking into Cullen's golden curls—_

 

“Stand only in places You have blessed—”

 

_He suckled greedily, lascivious slurps drowning out the pleasured sounds Dorian was making. He wanted—needed—to taste the mage's release, swallow before he could gag on his own contempt for his indulgence—_

 

“Sing only the words You place in my throat.”

 

_And when Dorian came, Cullen drank every last drop that hit the back of his throat, a thirst quenched in the blind fervor at which he sought distraction, to silence the ineptitude he experienced each time the war room brought more despair to this war that never seemed to end. It was between the thighs of the kind of man he once believed undeserving of the dignity afforded the non-magic folk that Cullen found diversion, indulged the guilt that festered beneath the visage of a bone-weary, ex-soldier who had seen it all._

 

Cullen may pretend he left the battlefield to hide behind gilded doors, replaced his days in the fight with strategy and logic, a game played off a field where many of the young and brave succumbed to a final resting place. But the truth was that each time Cullen closed his eyes, he was back in the thick of it, in a magical cage screaming for every atrocity done to his body, in a city that tore itself apart with lyrium-frenzied templars and mages drawing blood for power—

 

On his hands and knees, Cullen felt the tightness in his chest, heard the screams echoing in his ears. A shuddering breath to placate the hysteria threatening to burst from his rib cage, hold him hostage to memory he wouldn't wish a nightmare on anyone. His hands attempted to clutch at the hard stone, nails scraping and digging in until his callused tips became bloodied by the effort.

 

_Breathe,_ he tried to tell himself.

 

But even the looming shadow of Andraste couldn't silence the demons that refused to sleep, nor the ones that wore the handsome face of a Tevinter mage.

 

* * *

_Amatus._

 

The more he thought of its meaning, the more wary he became of whatever secret it would reveal. So Cullen didn't think about it, didn't indulge in the curiosity it invoked. It was easier to treat their clandestine moments as a lapse in reality, as a mere exchange of gratification in dark corners. So long as neither acknowledged it, Cullen could pretend. And he'd gotten quite good at pretending.

 

But he could only lie to himself for so long, could only allay the disgust that burrowed in his darkest places, left a dull sting as Dorian grew more careless in the few moments he exposed himself completely to the ex-templar. Body shivering from an orgasm, the mage had a way of melting into Cullen in post-coital bliss, Tevene word searing into the Commander's chest.

 

_Amatus._

 

And suddenly, not knowing was no longer enough.

 

It was what led Cullen to the Herald's Rest one afternoon, gloved hand swiping over a sweaty brow. He wasn't what he had once been, weariness overtaking him as he took the stairs down to the main floor, pausing to glance around the room. He desired nothing more than to lean against the railing, catch his breath, but the tavern was already filled with off-duty soldiers enjoying a pint.

 

He was the Commander of the Inquisition. He knew better than show any sign of weakness.

 

“Fancy seeing you here, Commander.”

 

Cullen almost blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected it to be that easy to find the man.

 

“Ser Aclassi,” Cullen said, his breath coming out in a small wheeze.

 

The concern on the Charger's face was immediate, already standing up from the stool he had been sitting on near the stairs. Before he could say anything, Cullen lifted a hand, silencing any worries before they could be voiced.

 

“I'm quite alright, Krem,” Cullen assured him. “Many months behind a desk have made me a bit less sprite, I'm afraid.”

 

The bead of sweat trickling down to his chin said otherwise but his firm expression kept the Charger from inquiring further.

 

“Would you like a pint, Commander? On me.”

 

Cullen graciously accepted and it wasn't long before he was seated with Krem at a table, washing down his fatigue with a tankard of ale. Once pleasantries and platitudes were exchanged, he found a way to ease into what he had hoped to discuss with the Tevinter.

 

“I had hoped to speak with you on a matter regarding the Venatori,” Cullen said.

 

Krem failed to hide his surprise. “The Venatori? I thought Dorian was your expert, official or otherwise. He's declared it on more than one occasion, says you lot would be lost without his _expertise_ in all things Tevinter.”

 

Cullen had to bite back a knowing smirk since it really did sound like something the mage would say.

 

“We have intercepted letters exchanged between the Venatori, in need of translation. I would normally go to Ser Pavus but he is in the Emerald Graves with the Inquisitor.”

 

“Sounds like quite the predicament,” Krem said, taking a sip of his beer. “I could have a look at them for you.”

 

“There's no need,” Cullen replied, a bit too quickly. He could already feel his cheeks heating with his lie, a nervous tick finding his hand stroking the back of his neck. “We have another translator looking into it, well-versed enough in Tevene to determine the nature of the letters. Anything important will be kept for Ser Pavus' return.”

 

Krem looked rather suspiciously at Cullen. But if he saw through the lie, he didn't acknowledge it. “So what is it you need me for?”

 

Cullen tried for nonchalant, taking a long drink from his mug. Really, though, he was biding precious seconds to better form what he wanted to ask without drawing even more suspicion from the Charger. “They are...stuck, on a few Tevene words. I was hoping you could tell me the meaning.”

 

Krem waited, as if expecting Cullen to hand something—anything—to him. When nothing came, he asked, “Which words?”

 

Cullen's face went redder, if possible. He hadn't thought this far ahead and now, he had to wrack apart his brain for anything Dorian's ever said around him.

 

“Vishte kaffas,” he began, hesitantly.

 

“Vishante kaffas?” Krem corrected.

 

“Well...yes.”

 

The Charger raised a brow. “They wrote _that_ in a letter?”

 

_Shit._

 

Maker help him, Cullen was terrible at this.

 

“...yes.”

 

Krem laughed. “Anything else?”

 

The Commander furrowed his brows in thought. “Fasta vass.”

 

The Charger laughed even louder, spilling some of his drink. “You sure your _translator_ hasn't swiped Dorian's diary? Whoever this venatori agent is, they have quite the vulgar tongue.”

 

Already feeling humiliated, and maybe a bit too transparent for his liking, Cullen frowned to bring some sobriety back to the conversation.

 

“A simple translation would suffice.”

 

“Let's just say, these are not words to repeat to one's mother,” Krem said, failing to hide a small smirk. Seeing the lack of humor on Cullen's face, the Charger coughed uncomfortably. “Anything else, Commander?”

 

Cullen knew he should leave before he embarrassed himself further. Krem's remark about Dorian only confirmed how easily it would be for the Charger to connect the dots and there was no guarantee suspicions wouldn't be passed along to the Iron Bull, then to the rest of the Inner Circle.

 

But he had to know the confession Dorian moaned in the midst of their fucking, whispered in the dark when he suspected Cullen too ignorant to put two-and-two together.

 

“Amatus.”

 

The word earned no laughter from the Charger, only a wistful look that made Cullen's throat feel dry, had him go numb with cold revelation even before Krem confirmed what he intuitively knew.

 

“Beloved.”

 

* * *

It wasn't long after the return from the Arbor Wilds that Cullen found new nightmares to terrorize his sleep. Bloodied and battered, armor singed and torn to reveal ripped flesh, he bled out with each step trudged across a field of gore, lifeless faces of all he commanded twisted in pain. His red cloak dragged over the bodies he tried desperately to step around, barely clinging to his aching shoulders, the sky above a blaze of hissing green fade energy.

 

He walked, tried calling for anyone that may have survived, but each time he shouted, his voice came out hoarse, blood spilling from his lips. He coughed, wheezed, collapsed when his legs could take him no further. He would have cried out, seeing the bodies of Leliana and Josephine in a heap of skewered torsos just before him, eyes unseeing into a void he would welcome to escape this horror. But weariness kept him bent over, kept bile burning in his throat but not pass his lips.

 

_I did this,_ he thought.

 

Because he wasn't smart enough to endeavor Corypheus' strategy. Because he had become complacent behind his comfortable desk, sending troops to their deaths at the hands of Red Templars and an “archdemon”. Because this was no different than his inexperience making him dismiss all the signs of blood magic back in Kinhold, or his willful ignorance under Meredith's leadership.

 

His bad call led to the end of Thedas.

 

“C-Cullen?”

 

On hands and knees, he crawled towards the sound of his name, nearly sobbing in relief when he found Dorian, chest rising and falling as the mage gasped for breath. But any relief was filled with horror at finding the Tevinter's legs crushed, body twisted abnormally about the waist. A gored hand reached for Cullen, the only one remaining, and the Commander grasped it, his vision swimming.

 

“Dorian.”

 

He wanted to say more but his voice failed him. Much as he had failed the Inquisition.

 

“I must say, you pull off the 'bloodied and battered' look better than I,” Dorian joked. He coughed around a laugh that couldn't quite escape his chest, blood speckling over his lips. “Red's not quite my color.”

 

Maker damn him and his glibness on the verge of death. The man wouldn't even leave this earth without having the last word in.

 

“I-It's my fault,” Cullen said, shakily. He swiped at the blood on Dorian's face, vision blurring. “I-I was too...”

 

“...distracted?” Dorian offered, lips twitching up with the hint of a smirk.

 

Like a wave crashing over his shoulders, Cullen was ripped from the Fade and awoke with a start. The bile that had churned in his stomach came rushing up and he was already tumbling out of bed, scrambling towards his chamber pot. He threw up what little he had eaten for dinner, the stench so overpowering that he remained for minutes dry heaving, desperate to empty his stomach of what was no longer there.

 

When he finally became convinced that there was nothing left to vomit, he shivered against the wooden floor of his loft, the burn in his throat causing tears to trickle down his cheeks. He wiped at them in embarrassment, though he knew nobody had been witness to his pathetic display. He should have been used to the nightmares by now, had years of night terrors under his belt already.

 

When the shaking wouldn't stop, he tiredly got back to his feet and sought a new shirt, one not drenched in sweat and smelling vaguely of sick. Putting on a warmer pair of trousers and his boots, he decided on fresh air to chase the lingering panic of his dream.

 

How he found himself outside the Skyhold Chantry minutes later came as little shock. Under Andraste's watchful gaze, he would find penance for all the wrongs he had yet to commit.

 

“A midnight stroll in the gardens? Why, Commander, I had no idea you were quite the romantic,” a voice teased.

 

They hadn't spoken since the Arbor Wilds, not since Cullen had seen Dorian, bandaged and wounded, in a tent, earning Cassandra's ire with glib remarks and a general disinterest in his own safety. Dorian, who he had thought had almost...who even in his nightmares had almost...

 

Cullen couldn't hide the distress he felt, the remnants of his dreams, fear personified in images that had seemed too real to be simply a possible future, causing him to draw a shaky breath. His forehead was damp, a shiver passing through him when hit with the coolness of the night air. It was enough to earn a furrowed brow from Dorian, all jest gone from his silky voice.

 

"Commander, are you alright?"

 

_Am I?_ The ex-templar wanted to retort, having long since forgotten what it felt to be 'alright'.

 

They were too exposed out here, in the open where any soldier on night patrol could glance over the ramparts with a curious eye. Like prey caught in an open field, the need to retreat to the nearest shelter became overwhelming. He gripped Dorian's wrist tightly, dragging the mage into the Chantry and shutting the door behind them. The faint glow of candles bathed the room in a dull light but it was with manic urgency that Cullen regarded Dorian, voice lowered to a loud whisper.

 

“Your injuries? Are you—?”

 

He wondered why Dorian looked so mystified by his concern but the long pause the mage took to respond was even more maddening.

 

“I'm in as good spirits as one can expect,,” Dorian responded, with a flippant shrug. Cullen wanted to roll his eyes at Dorian's brevity because, really, the man could have _died_ and he wouldn't push it past the mage to ignore nearly all of the healer's careful instructions. “You, however, seem a bit more worse for wear. Maybe we should—mmhph!”

 

Thrown against the door almost viciously, Cullen pressed into the mage, silencing whatever words Dorian had yet to speak with his own tongue. He chased the dread that had consumed him with heated kisses, hands burying into the collar of Dorian's tunic, lips devouring the mage with a hunger that had his body immediately responding. The bulge that dug into Dorian's hip made the Tevinter pariah sigh into the kiss, driving Cullen's need to a madness that wouldn't be sated until he was whimpering blasphemous tribute and coming undone.

 

The next part was as easy as it has always been. Conversation had long been forgone, traded for a currency of physical gratification that avoided the awkward question of what this was between them, of confessions regarding Cullen's sleepless nights in the throes of withdrawal, of the failure that lurked behind every hard call he was forced to make in the midst of war. Cullen could need Dorian's body because it was no different than a transaction, a service that guaranteed a specific outcome, be that outcome dispensed inside the mage or on that famed glib tongue of his.

 

What Cullen couldn't need was Dorian.

 

So when the Commander found his back to the door, trousers unlaced, and neck tingling from the string of kisses left by the mage, there was no confusion in his mind when he whimpered, “I need you,” voice cracking with desperation.

 

For a moment, Dorian stilled, hand pausing from where it had been undoing his own trousers, gray eyes drawing up to regard Cullen with something unspoken in any tongue familiar to the Fereldan. His response was a defeat to something neither of them would acknowledge, to something Cullen refused to give.

 

“Anything, _amatus._ ”

 

And it became so unbearable that Cullen had to look away when Dorian took both of them in hand, the delicious trill of cock rubbing against cock erupting in a low groan soon stifled when the Commander's gaze fell on the judging eyes of Andraste. Placid in all her alabaster glory, she saw with eyes unseeing the sin he committed in her sanctuary and her condemnation was in lips forever silenced, a witness to his final fall from the Maker's grace.

 

He wanted to repent, to beseech the Maker with prayer undeserving of his foul tongue, to say, “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light,” but any promise he made would be swiftly broken each time his hips thrust up into Dorian's hand. Instead, he could only throw back his head, close his eyes and recite the canticle of his disgrace, a series of pleasured gasps that would soon be his undoing. When he released, it was with praise to his own gluttony, the lines of cum staining his shirt evidence of his covetous ways.

 

With shaky breath, he leaned his forehead against Dorian's, a hand reaching behind the mage's neck to brush at the soft, dark hairs. Breath intermingling, Dorian bumped his nose affectionately against Cullen's, and it made something hot and vicious ripple in the Commander's chest, had him pulling away dizzily before they could go any further.

 

With his back to the door, steadying him as he fumbled with the laces on his pants, Cullen drew his eyes down, so he wouldn't have to see the look on Dorian's face.

 

“I...have many reports to review, before retiring for the evening.”

 

The excuse sounded as sad to his ears as it had in his head, a retreat. Cullen would easily fight to his last breath when facing a horde of demons but in the afterglow of the intimacy he experienced with the Tevinter, he had never been anything but a coward.

 

“Then I shall leave you to it,” came Dorian's reply, careful in its forced nonchalance. “Who am I, but a humble servant fighting for the most noble of causes, to distract the Commander of the Inquisition?”

 

Where one may expect a bitter tongue, there was nothing but gentle teasing, crafted to precise inflection with the same attention to detail as the metaphorical mask worn by the mage. It made the retreat easier in how complicit Dorian always was, maybe as terrified by the emotion lingering in gentle caresses as Cullen was. Cullen knew better than to _want_ , knew how easily he sullied anything that didn't involve his sword and shield, and so, he didn't.

 

But when Dorian turned before leaving, idling by the open door, the Commander felt the nausea hit him with a ferocity only matched by the questioning expression on the Tevinter's face.

 

“Cullen, I—”

 

Swiftness carried him out the door first.

 

“Apologies, Dorian, but we must save this for another time.”

 

He barely managed a polite, 'Good evening' before he was racing towards his tower, the pounding in his ears drowning out the sounds of patrolling guards, idle chatter carried on the wind. It wasn't until his back was to the door, safe inside his own tower, that Cullen succumbed to the panic, lungs tightening in his struggle for breath. The field of dead swam behind his eyes, bodies mutilated beyond recognition, the rift stretching across all of Thedas. He breathed in hard, wheezed, gripped his soiled shirt to keep the images at bay.

 

But he still heard the accusation in the same voice that often brought him to release.

 

“ _...distracted?”_

 

From all the way down in the Chantry, he felt the watchful eyes of Andraste and buckled before her judgment.

 

* * *

Avoiding Dorian in the months that followed was easier than Cullen had anticipated. The mage spent enough time away from Skyhold, helping the Inquisitor garner more support for a final assault on Corypheus by cleaning up parts of Thedas left to the destructive armies of Red Templars. And when he was within the stone walls of the stronghold, the Tevinter was researching in the library, seeking any advantage in ancient texts.

 

That Cullen was aware of this, of every swish of robes, the flicker of light playing on embellishment, the gentle, rich laughter that echoed around the rotunda each time the Commander hastily passed through to the Great Hall, spoke to the ache that spread like disease, his own hand long since abandoning any attempts at releasing the stress that appeared in the deeply etched lines of his face, the gauntness of cheeks from meals skipped to pour over battle maps. Every movement of troops became the pawns sacrificed to the enemy's bishops, a tactic that saw their own rooks capture much needed territory later to fall in battle against the enemy's knights. Real faces, young men and women hardy for the cause, perished in his game of chess but this time, there was no flirtatious mage to knock the board over and call it a draw.

 

The withdrawals became worse, the nightmares more vivid. Cullen slept even less than he ate, found only an outlet for his frustration by snapping at every messenger that was moments late, at every new recruit who fumbled with a sword in training. Like a starved lion, he stalked his tower, confined by expectation, finding only failure in narrow victories. Why celebrate when thousands lay dead, never to hold their lover in their arms again, to sing praise to the Maker or Creators for the gift of life, to see Thedas restored to before Blights and mage rebellions and ancient darkspawn?

 

It was all pointless, fighting this losing battle.

 

His vision stung, words blurring on the missives he was attempting to read, head pounding from another string of sleepless nights. He couldn't concentrate when all he wanted was to press into that tight warmth, shudder against skin glistening from their exertion, feel those long fingers weave into his curls, whispering encouragement in multiple languages. A victory easily sought when both brought each other to completion.

 

Maker, he didn't miss him.

 

He didn't.

 

* * *

It was stifling to stay in his tower, the last words they exchanged embedded in stone as cold as Cullen's voice had been when he told Dorian to leave.

 

_Stay,_ a part of him had wanted to protest, that same part that believed he could go on using Dorian's body to chase the call of lyrium, to forget the dead that fell at his command, stained his hands in blood he has never been able to wash off.

 

He wanted to sink into the delirium Dorian promised but instead, had watched, shaking with a temper easily ignited by choice words, as the mage walked away.

 

So he came here, to the only place he had ever found redemption, Andraste's marbled visage a beacon of comfort within the despondency that permeated Skyhold's walls in the wake of the final confrontation against Corypheus.

 

Knelt before her, Cullen gazed up helplessly, hands drawn in prayer, haggard face dripping with sweat, lyrium's call making him shudder beneath her shadow.

 

“ _Was it desperation or loneliness that made you come to me all those months before?”_

 

Dorian's accusation had pierced like a blunted sword, serrated edge ripping him from inside the more he played it over in his head, his answer mired in a truth found somewhere in between.

 

“O Maker, know my heart,” Cullen started, voice thick. “Take from me a life of sorrow.”

 

“ _Have you grown bored of me, amatus?”_

 

The desperation in Dorian's voice, the flicker of sadness in those gray eyes, had shocked Cullen, so used to seeing the mage guarded, emotions hidden behind a strategic smirk. The use of _amatus_ had burned the last of the lie, exposing what he had tried to ignore for so long.

 

“Lift me from a world of pain—”

 

_On hands and knees, Dorian had sucked him to completion and Cullen, like the weak-willed fool he was, had feebly gripped the mage's shoulder, welcomed the euphoric ache that burst from his abdomen, spilled down the throat of a man so desperate for his affection, he would debase himself in such a way: a disposable tool, a means to the only respite Cullen ever found when not screaming awake from his nightmares. And Cullen took, he took and he took, because he could._

 

“Judge me worthy of Your endless pride—”

 

Dorian's smile in those post-coital moments, when his guard was down and he curled into Cullen's embrace—

 

“For You are the fire at the heart of the world—”

 

Dorian's gentle caresses, Tevene words tumbling from his lips in moments of intimacy—

 

“And comfort is only Yours to give.”

 

“ _Amatus”_

 

Even as Cullen came to the end of the prayer, Dorian's voice would still not leave him.

 

In a fit of anger, he beat his fists at the base of the statue, skin tearing over marble, knuckles bloodied and cracked.

 

“Make it stop, dammit!”

 

But there would be no silence to the lyrium's song, no comfort in the blank, unseeing eyes of Andraste. There was only the hollow echo of his voice, a broken note that shattered when he was offered no absolution, only regret.

 


End file.
